Chapter 14: The Laughing Tree and the Reluctant Patron
The day after his conversation with the she-wolf, Thor felt a subtle shift in the air. It was a faint tremor in the web of fate he was so attuned to, a new thread being woven into the tapestry of this world's history. He dismissed it as paranoia, a side effect of his memories being stirred. He returned to his bottle, to the familiar, comforting ritual of trying to obliterate his own consciousness. But the world, it seemed, had other plans.
The jousts had begun in earnest. The tourney grounds were a constant cacophony of roaring crowds, splintering lances, and the blare of heralds' trumpets. Thor ignored it all, the noise a distant, irrelevant hum. He sat under his oak tree, a silent, brooding fixture, while his followers maintained their reverent, if somewhat odorous, vigil around him. The Storm-Crier, Leo, had taken to delivering two sermons a day now, his voice growing stronger and his theology more elaborate with each performance. Thor had apparently now entered his 'Silent Contemplation' phase, a period of divine rest before his 'Great Scourging' of the wicked. Thor just called it 'Tuesday'.
It was on the third day of the jousting that the tremor he had felt grew into a full-blown earthquake. The heralds announced the challenge of a new mystery knight. This was not uncommon in tourneys; knights would sometimes hide their identity for reasons of honour, romance, or shame. But this knight was different.
The figure that rode into the lists was small, clad in a mismatched assortment of ill-fitting armour scavenged from various sources. The shield was the most peculiar part. Upon it was painted a sigil unlike any of the great houses: a smiling weirwood tree, its red, weeping eyes filled not with sorrow, but with a strange, joyful mirth. The Knight of the Laughing Tree, the herald declared, had arrived.
From his vantage point, Thor watched with a detached boredom that quickly evaporated. There was something familiar about the way the knight sat in the saddle, a certain restless energy, a compact grace that tweaked a memory. The knight's challenge was announced. They would champion the honour of the crannogman, Howland Reed, and demanded that the three knights whose squires had tormented him answer for their squires' dishonour.
A murmur went through the noble pavilions. It was a bold, even foolish, challenge. The three knights—a Haigh, a Blount, and a Frey—were seasoned tourney competitors, not squires to be trifled with. They accepted the challenge with scornful laughter, eager to teach this upstart a lesson.
The first tilt was against the Knight of House Haigh. The mystery knight's charge was not as powerful as his opponent's, but it was far more precise. At the moment of impact, the Knight of the Laughing Tree shifted their weight, their lance finding the exact center of the other knight's shield. The resounding crack of splintering wood echoed across the plaza. The Haigh knight was unhorsed, tumbling into the dust in a clatter of steel and bruised pride.
The crowd, which had been expecting a swift defeat, let out a collective gasp, followed by a ripple of excited cheers.
The second tilt, against the Blount, was even more impressive. The mystery knight's movements were fluid, almost dancing. They seemed to anticipate the Blount's attack, deflecting his lance with their shield while their own found its mark, once again sending a proud knight sprawling.
Now the crowd was roaring. The smallfolk, in particular, were ecstatic. A champion had arisen from nowhere to defend the honour of a humble crannogman against the arrogance of the powerful.
Robert Baratheon, in the stands, was on his feet, bellowing with laughter and delight. "Seven Hells, did you see that! The boy has real fire! Or girl!" he shouted to Ned, who was watching with a rare, small smile on his face.
Thor, under his tree, felt a cold dread mix with a flicker of something he refused to name. Pride? He recognized the movements now. The ferocious, economical grace. It was the she-wolf. It was Lyanna Stark. The little fool had actually done it. She had taken his careless words and forged them into a suit of armour and a righteous cause. He was no longer a passive observer. He was an accomplice.
The final tilt was against the notoriously unpleasant Knight of House Frey. The Frey charged with a brutal, straightforward fury. The Knight of the Laughing Tree did not try to meet it head-on. Instead, in a display of horsemanship that stunned the onlookers, they seemed to flow around the attack, their lance striking the Frey's helm at a sharp angle. The Frey was lifted clean out of his saddle, landing with a sickening thud that knocked him senseless.
The victory was absolute. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had defeated all three challengers. According to the rules of the tourney, the victor could claim the horses and armour of the vanquished. The mystery knight rode before the pavilion of the defeated knights and, in a clear, ringing voice that was cleverly distorted by the helm, declared the ransom: that they should seek out their squires and teach them what honour truly meant.
The declaration sent the smallfolk into a frenzy of adoration. This was not a knight seeking wealth or glory. This was a true champion of justice.
And in the center of it all, Thor took a long, slow drink. He felt the eyes of his followers on him. He could already hear the gears turning in Leo's theatrical mind.
As if on cue, the Storm-Crier, his face alight with divine inspiration, leaped onto a barrel. "BEHOLD!" he roared, his voice carrying across the tourney grounds and silencing the crowd. He pointed a trembling finger at the victorious knight in the lists. "You see now the power of the Storm Lord! He does not act himself, for his ways are mysterious! But he has sent us a champion! A mortal hand to dispense his justice! THE HAND OF THE STORM! The Knight of the Laughing Tree is the chosen of Thor!"
A wave of understanding and ecstatic belief washed through the commons. Of course! It all made sense! The god had sent a champion! Thor's followers erupted, their chants now including praise for the 'Hand of the Storm'. They saw this as a direct manifestation of their god's will, a validation of their faith.
Thor closed his eyes. It was happening again. His attempt to do a small, decent thing—to offer a word of encouragement to a fiery girl—had been twisted into a holy crusade. He was no longer just a god; he was a patron of champions, the head of a divine faction in the politics of the tourney. He was being woven into the fabric of this world's narrative, thread by painful thread, against his will.
The reaction in the royal pavilion was decidedly less joyful. King Aerys, who had been coaxed into attending the day's jousts, had watched the proceedings with a paranoid glare. He did not see a thrilling upset. He saw defiance. He saw a mockery of the established order.
"Who is he?" Aerys shrieked, his voice a ragged edge of fury. He scrambled to his feet, pointing a trembling, claw-like finger at the mystery knight. "Unmask him! I command it! No one is permitted to hide their face from their King! It is treason! The smiling tree… it mocks me! It mocks the weirwood the false god planted to spite me! This is his work!"
The King's rage was a palpable force. The Kingsguard knights shifted uncomfortably. To unmask a mystery knight who had not been defeated was a breach of tourney etiquette and honour.
"Your Grace," Jon Connington, a friend of Rhaegar's, tried to interject gently, "the rules of the tourney…"
"I AM THE RULES!" Aerys screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "I want his head! Find him! Unmask him!"
Rhaegar Targaryen, however, did not share his father's rage. He had watched the mystery knight's performance with a quiet, burning intensity. He saw the skill, the grace, the unexpectedness of it all. But more than that, he saw the sigil. A laughing weirwood. A symbol of the Old Gods of the North, but filled with joy, not sorrow. Ice, but with fire in its heart.
He heard the whispers of the smallfolk, the declaration of the Storm-Crier. He did not believe this knight was literally a champion sent by Thor. But he did believe in signs. Omens. The god's presence at this tourney, and now the appearance of a mysterious champion of justice who seemed to embody the wild spirit of the North… it was all connected. It was part of the song.
While his father screamed for the knight's head, Rhaegar felt a pull, an obsession, to find the knight himself. Not to punish, but to understand. To see the face behind the laughing tree. He dispatched his own sworn swords, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent, with a quiet command. They were not to harm the knight. They were to find him.
The hunt was on. Aerys, in his madness, sent men to scour the tourney grounds, seeking a traitor. Rhaegar, in his obsession, sent his own men, seeking a prophecy.
Thor knew they would not find her. He had watched as Lyanna, after her victory, had ridden not back to the armourers' tents, but directly into the woods bordering the Gods Eye. He knew she was smart, wild, and resourceful. A she-wolf was not easily trapped.
He sat under his tree as the sun began to set, the tourney grounds abuzz with the search for the mystery knight. He felt a strange, grim satisfaction that she had escaped the King's immediate wrath. But he also felt a growing unease. He had started this. His words had been the spark.
As darkness fell, a figure approached his encampment. It was not a supplicant or a knight. It was a young boy with a lame leg, his face smudged with dirt but his eyes shining with excitement. It was Finn. He limped up to Thor, stopping a respectful distance away. He was holding something in his hands.
"My lord," the boy whispered, his voice filled with awe. He held out his offering. It wasn't food or coin. It was a shield. A small, crudely made wooden shield. And painted on it, with berry juice and charcoal, was a sigil: a laughing weirwood tree.
"For your champion," Finn said. "So everyone knows she serves you."
Thor looked from the shield to the boy's earnest, worshipping face. The boy was offering him the symbol of the very chaos he had unwittingly unleashed. He was being handed the banner of a cause he wanted no part of.
He should have refused it. He should have smashed the shield, told the boy to run away and stop drawing silly pictures. But he looked at Finn's hopeful expression, at the absolute, unwavering belief in his eyes. The boy wasn't just offering a shield. He was offering his faith, his loyalty. It was the same look he had seen on the faces of young Asgardians, long ago.
With a sigh that felt like it carried the weight of a dying world, Thor reached out his hand. The boy flinched, expecting a blow. Instead, Thor's great, calloused fingers gently took the shield. He held it for a moment, the crude painting a testament to a dozen different kinds of folly.
He did not smash it. He simply leaned it against the trunk of the oak tree beside him. A silent acceptance. A weary surrender.
Finn's face broke into a radiant grin. He bowed low, then limped away, his heart soaring. He would tell everyone. The Storm God had accepted the shield! He had acknowledged his champion!
Thor watched him go, then stared at the small, pathetic shield. He had just officially, if silently, accepted patronage of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. He had been drawn another step deeper into their world, another chain of responsibility shackled around his soul. He picked up his bottle. The drink wasn't working anymore. The memories were getting clearer. The faces of the people around him were becoming more distinct. And he was beginning to suspect, with a terror that was colder and more profound than any hangover, that he might not be able to sit by and watch this world burn after all. He was a warrior who had lost his war, just as the she-wolf had said. But the tragedy was, the instincts of the warrior remained. And they were, piece by painful piece, coming back to life.